Falling Skies: Lost Angels
by Diesel
Summary: A hyper fictionalized version of the Los Angeles County area, as it would be in the world of Falling Skies. Many connections will be made to the show as it progresses. We know how it is in Boston... How far have the angels fallen in LA?
1. Chapter One: Stolen Moment

Finally, a moment to myself. I don't get those often, anymore. Since the invasion, everyone has been a pretty tight knit group. This is a good thing, overall, but privacy is an expensive commodity. It's hard to be alone when all the shelter you ve got requires so many people to be so tightly packed in it.

I'm a survivor of the alien attack some six months ago. I'm currently in a warehouse store which has been repurposed as living quarters. We're near the 210 freeway in Los Angeles County. A good number of people have decided to hunker down and make this their temporary home. It's not a bad idea, since there's a lot of food supplies here. Unfortunately, all the refridgerated food is either spoiled, rotten, or rapidly on its way there.

Tomorrow, the group plans to celebrate a win against a 100 alien batallion Which is foolish, considering that the battle hasn't even been fought, yet. I suspect that several of those making the decisions in this group are burgeoning alcoholics.

I'm here with my wife, my mother-in-law, and her fiancee. We're a tight family unit, and that's probably one of the only things keeping us sane, at this point. We've been through a lot together both before and since the invasion.

The invaders... the 'bugs'... We call them Creepers. They're like bugs, so they're 'creepy-crawlies'. But they also creep around at night. There was a game that had monsters called Creepers, too: Let them get too close, and they'll destroy you.

So, that's my situation. Or at least part of it. I'll write whenever I can spare a few moments. This is the new history of humankind. It's the victors who write the history books. Get your pens ready.

~ B.T.

Author's Remarks/Disclaimer: I know this entry is particularly short. This project started as an experiment, and still is-by and large-very experimental. Entries will get longer as the storyline continues! If anything, this is just enough to get one's feet wet. I hope you enjoy it, and give the future chapters a read!

In the meanwhile, let me give you a little background in how this got started:

I am taking part in a promotion by and the new TNT show "Falling Skies'. I was chosen, along with 599 others, to receive an 'Alien Invasion Survival Kit'. I have posted pictures of this kit on my Tumblr account [username: DieselBT] I opted into this promotion, and continue to participate on a voluntary basis.

In addition, those selected by Klout have become part of the 'Army of Influence'. The goal is to initiate more dialogue about Falling Skies and the mythos of series. In turn, there is an Army of Influence leaderboard. Whoever is at the top of this leaderboard at the end of the promotion wins a walk-on role for one of the upcoming episodes of Falling Skies!

For me, this is by no means a 'small' prize. The series is executive produced by Steven Spielberg. I have been a huge Spielberg fan for at least a good 25 years. When I was younger—probably around 10 or 11—I wrote a letter to Mr. Spielberg at Amblin Entertainment, telling him how much I loved his work. I also explained how much I admired him, and wanted to be a director when I grew up.

He, unfortunately, did not respond personally, but someone from his office did. I was told that if that's what I wanted to be, that I should follow my dreams and make it happen. Admittedly, my goals have changed since then … but I still greatly admire Mr. Spielberg and the work that he's done. I'm working my way into the video game industry, but these days… he's there, too. To have even a remote chance to meet him would be a dream come true to me. I would love to work with him someday, which I know is a tall order. But… If I can say that I was at least a small part of something he worked on, it would mean the world to me. Besides, it could very well be the first step to something greater. [Honestly, though… Everything can be, if you let it.]

So, I started this 'in character journal' to get more into the world of Falling Skies, and to more deeply delve into its fiction. Imagine the journal character as a hyper-fictionalized version of myself, but still within the world that the Skitters have destroyed. Characters from the series will be mentioned as the story progresses, but not immediately. Hyper-fictionalized versions of other members of the Army of Influence will likely make appearances as well! If you like this series of journals, I invite you to support me in the Army of Influence challenge, by following me on Twitter [DieselBT] and retweeting my tweets containing the #fsincentivized hashtag, or by tweeting the following:

**'I want DieselBT to win a walk-on role in the new TNT show, #FallingSkies! #fsincentivized'**

**Regardless of your methods, the Army of Influence Challenge runs until August 7th, 2011, so I need your support as often as you can offer it until then! Retweet often, and tell your friends!**

Join the resistance. Help me become the leader of the Army of Influence!

~ Bryan


	2. Chapter Two: Fool's Errand

The assault on the Creeper encampment failed. Horribly. For starters, our fearless leader who shall hence be called 'Jack Daniels'-for reasons that will be made immediately clear-went into battle feeling no pain, and took more shots of liquor than shots at the enemy. I have no doubt that his fearless approach was due to his liberal use of liquid courage. He passed out, drunk, halfway through the skirmish, and had to be dragged back to the convoy by our sniper, who barely spotted him in time. He was one of the only ones to survive. The sniper, and those who were guarding the vehicles were the only other ones to return.

I was asked to take overwatch along with three others at the warehouse, in case any Creepers attempted to follow our regimen back. This was unnecessary. In the midst of the firefight, which could easily be heard in the distance, a single airborne Creeper unit cleared the area without prejudice. The Banshee-called as such due to the screaming sound they make as they fly through the sky-flew over the battlefield three times. Each time releasing a volley of what we are certain are some sort of plasma bombs. Everything in the field was vaporized or scorched, both Human and Creeper alike. From our stations on the roof of the warehouse, all we could see were hemispheres of electric blue light emerging from the horizon, followed by wisps of sapphire flame licking the sky. I can't help but wonder if we might have been winning, and it was a desperate move by the Creepers.

Maybe something higher up in the ranks of the Creepers chose to kill the few survivors of that unit in order to wipe out a larger number of enemy forces. In our own military, we call that 'acceptable losses'. It's horrifying to know their own troops mean so little to them. It's equally as horrifying knowing that we once thought the same of our own, before they came.

In a twisted way, I have to thank Jack for his inability to control his alcohol intake. If he hadn't needed physical assistance to get back to the convoy, we may very well have lost everyone that went out. We lost nearly a hundred able-bodied members of the resistance today. If we had also lost the twelve who returned in the remnants of the convoy, it would have been an even one hundred. As it stands, the survivors from the skirmish were: six truck drivers, three Navy SEALS, a supposed ex-government hitman, a recently retired California Highway Patrolman, and Jack. Everybody-except Jack-seems to have some sort of evidence of their skills and profession. Until he says otherwise, I'm going to assume Jack used to work in upper management, due to his keen ability to micromanage large groups while keeping his own task list extraordinarily small.

Enough about Jack. I suppose it's only fair to tell a little bit more about me. I originally hail from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. But I try not to think too much about where I came from, anymore. I have no way to contact the parts of my family that still remain there. I've heard reports that every major city has been destroyed... So, I fear the worst. For now, all I have is hope.

Many of my skills are practically useless since the Creepers destroyed our electronics with EMP. Most of my primary skills involved computers, to some extent. Unless someone happens to have one that was 100% EMP shielded, I'm out of luck. What I do have, however, is very good hand-eye coordination. Up until the invasion, I had never fired a real gun. I've played a good number of first person shooters, and the knowledge translates surprisingly well:

- Shoot where the target is going, not where it is

- Aim for the head unless it's protected

- Steady breathing makes for steady aiming

- Never go into battle with a partially loaded mag or clip

- Protect your flank at all costs

- Conserve ammo

- The best campers get the most kills

- Never trust the enemy

Allow me to paraphrase a quote from Shadowrun: 'Watch your back, shoot straight, conserve ammo, and never, ever cut a deal with a Creeper.'

Here's hoping that we re never put into a situation that we need to even consider that last bit.

~ B.T.


	3. Chapter Three: One Dart

[Author's remark: I'm going to do a combo-style post I m starting with a short journal entry, then a first person retelling of the event in greater detail. If you like how it works out, let me know!]

It's been a few days since the attack on the Creeper encampment. Over the past few nights, we scouted local buildings over the past few nights, somehow moving under the radar of the Creepers and Banshees alike. Most of the spoils were canned foods, clean clothing, tools But the greatest find was in a half-destroyed mall. Surprisingly, it wasn't edible. Unless you're into that kind of thing.

We've found more survivors. Most of them appear to be capable fighters, despite their age. You would be surprised to see how scrappy mallrats get in dire situations (beyond missing a sale, that is). They had been holed up in there for most of the six months since the invasion. The night we found them, I saw what was perhaps some of the most strategic use of makeup, dart guns, mannequins, and As-Seen-on-TV merchandise ever. MacGuyver woul' ve been proud, not that they likely have the slightest clue who that even is.

So, there are six new members of the resistance. It's not many, but every able body gets us a step closer to winning... or at least surviving.

~ B.T.

As we approached the mall, I briefly lamented the loss of the local game store and coffee shop in the strip of shops at the corner. No more gaming, no more iced mochas. I'd have still had $4.76 on my membership card if the EMP hadn't erased it. Though, it was pretty unlikely that there would be a barista there to take my card, regardless.

Every ground level door was barricaded by strategically overturned cargo trucks, effectively creating a fortress of steel and concrete. One of our scouts found a single entrance: A gap near the top of a pile of rubble. The rubble had once been the walls to another wing of the mall. It now remained as a makeshift wall of piled up concrete rocks, with a hole near the top just large enough for an average sized human to crawl through.

So, crawl we did, into the gap, the thin beams of light from our flashlights leading the way. As we reached the floor, we were met by several dozen silhouettes, each with a steely glint at their hip. Each of the silhouettes had their hands at their hip, ready to assault any possible threat that they thought may be posed to them.

A voice, stern but young, called out of the darkness at us: "Leave the way you came in. I swear, if they followed you here, we'll take every last one of you down." Then, a lanky, freckle-faced redheaded boy no older than thirteen stepped out of the shadows, a Desert Eagle gripped tightly in his hand. The business end of the pistol was pointed squarely at our squad leader, who calls herself Lara (yes, she uses the name in reference to THAT Lara, and to be honest, she's a big enough tough-ass to have earned the right to use it). A tiny pinprick of red light shimmered and danced across her forehead.

She frowned-almost imperceptibly, in the near darkness-and took a step forward, challenging his authority. "We're part of the alien resistance. We're on recon. We're not here to fight you. Stand down." The boy grimaced, then grinned nervously. The red dot began to jitter as Lara took another step toward him. There was a dull pop, followed by a fleshy slap as Lara's head snapped back.

In an instant, she had the boy in a choke hold from behind and a bright yellow foam dart clung to her forehead.


End file.
